


Tour Guide

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Light Angst, code-switching, quiet resistance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 21:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12713589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: Warden Ruth Tabris, former Alienage bawd, introduces Zevran to her old crew.Also, Denerim elves will be ready when the revolution comes.





	Tour Guide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nlans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/gifts).



> This prompt was for art, but I don’t art and the idea of a Zev/Tabris pairing intrigued me. I admit it was also more of a challenge than I was expecting. :) I hope you enjoy the treat!  
> Prompt: I love the Zevran romance and Female Tabris/Zev is my personal OTP. Would love art of them being affectionate and couple-y. Canon or modern AU! Prefer SFW. No non-con, please.  
> Minor AU where Ruth Tabris gets more time to talk to Nelaros.

Zevran wrinkles his nose and bites back a comment about the smell of waste as they step off the bridge. However he feels about Alienages, this is where his Warden is from. His lover, his protector: Ruth Tabris. She wants to pretend to go shopping with him for the Landsmeet and slip off to her prior home instead? He will play along.

She sees his expression and smirks at him, then transforms playfully. She bounces up on the balls of her feet, dropping years off her look. _No, not just years._ Zevran could take her for a mark, innocent of the horrors of the Blight, blood magic, or nobles.

“Welcome to the Elven Alienage,” she says, walking backward and waving an arm. “Here we will find _authentic_ Elvhen food and ancient artifacts for a bargain!”

Zevran shakes his head. He knew she’d been a bawd, enticing marks to the Alienage to spend their coin, but he’d never seen it in action. “Amor, please,” he says. A child running through the streets bumps into him and his coinpurse shifts. Zevran has no doubt it’s been replaced with a stone. Ruth catches the kid by the collar. The boy spins, gaping in surprise.

“First, you know better than to hit a mark _before_ they’ve been to the shops. Second, I was joking around. _This_ man is one of us. Do not fuck with him. Ever.”

The kid nods, hands Zevran’s purse to Ruth, and bows when she lets him go. “Sorry, ser,” he says. Zevran recognizes the signs of respect Ruth gave Cyrion on their previous visit.

“Better,” Ruth says. Then she puts on that persona, the one that isn’t her, but perhaps how she could have been in a kinder world. “Zev, this is Atanas Nicafor, one of my crew back in the day. Atanas, Zevran Arianai, former Antivan Crow and part of my crew these days.”

“Good to meet you, Atanas,” Zevran says, winking and extending his hand with exaggerated formality.

The boy smirks and takes it. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he says, shaking Zevran’s hand with the right pressure for a job interview.

“Might I say that was an excellent bump-and-grab,” Zevran says, handing him a small coin and the stone.

The kid smiles, taking what’s offered. “Thank you, ser.”

Zevran picks out the least-filed sovereign from his pouch. “If you take this one, it is yours to do with as you like,” he says.

The kid’s eyes get wide as saucers, and he looks at Ruth. She’s got her arms folded, but she smirks and nods.

The kid tries to grab it purely on speed, which is good for his age. Zevran pulls it out of his reach, but nods approval. He teaches the kid a few feints, then lets him catch the coin. The kids smiles brilliantly. The sovereign vanishes.

“Good work, Atanas,” Ruth says, smiling. “Time to fuck off.” She gives the kid a friendly ruffle of his hair, and he scowls at her and fucks off with a grin for Zev.

“I have a tour to give,” Ruth says to Zev, winking.

Inside the shop, there are a few people milling about, minding their own business with a practiced air. Ruth heads straight for the shopkeep.

“Alarith, this is Zevran,” she says. “I’m showing him around today.”

Alarith smiles. “Ruth, good seeing you.”

Zevran feels sliding unease, the same as when he met Alarith with the rest of the crew. This time he pins it down: Alarith sounds a bit like Taliesen. Having identified his unease, he can shove it into the appropriate box to be dealt with later. If he _ever_ deals with it before facing Taliesen. _Only a matter of time._

“Zevran, it’s good to meet you officially,” Alarith continues. “I hope you’re keeping her well-anchored out there.”

Zevran laughs, flirting on reflex. “And she me, my good man. It would be terrible if we all floated off on a wave of darkspawn, no?”

Alarith nods grimly. “It would indeed. Any secrets to share?”

Zevran shrugs. “If you were to be so unfortunate as to meet some darkspawn, I would kill their mage first. Unless you want Blight sickness, keep your mouth shut and don’t wipe your eyes. Other than that, I simply do my best to kill them before they kill her.”

Alarith smiles and nods again. “If you’re showing him around, more to see in back,” Alarith says to Ruth, twitching his head toward a door.

“Thanks, Alarith.” Ruth slides behind the counter and through the door. Zevran follows.

There are weathered crates here, stolen from the docks. Zevran spots a Dalish-looking mask in one. He glances at Ruth in surprise. She smiles and twitches her head to indicate he should look closer.

“You were not joking about the artifacts,” Zevran says. Ruth only hums, which raises his suspicions. The mask is packed in dry sawdust, which falls away as he pulls it out. The mask has short horns. It’s long, giving the appearance of a beak or long beard. Twisting lines of scarlet and deep yellow give the impression of thorns: Elgar’nan, Dalish god of vengeance. The colors are vivid. Zevran frowns, hefting it.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Ruth says as if she’s encouraging him to purchase it.

“It is nearly perfect,” he says.

Ruth smirks. “Nearly?” She’s having far too much fun.

“The material is too heavy, I think. Original masks were made of a lighter wood. The colors are off, too. Most wouldn’t spot it. You couldn’t crush the right insects for this red, could you?”

Ruth nods, flips over the mask to show a subtle mark carved into it, and hands it back. “Humans love them, but we make them flawed so they don’t muck with lore.”

An elf opens the door at the back of the store room, stopping dead for a moment before returning Ruth’s smile. He nods and adds his crate to the stack. “Taking him to the shop, too?” the elf says.

“Yeah, so everyone knows him. Thanks, Helmo.”

“Warden Ruth. Well met, Zevran.”

Ruth laughs at Zevran’s surprise. “Word doesn’t travel fast in the Crows?” She gives him a kiss on the cheek and ducks through the back door as the man fusses with the crates. Zevran chuckles and follows her through an enclosed hallway, where song and arguing filter through the doors and hallways. Zevran catches snatches of dance reels, an argument about money, and someone singing the Chant.

She opens a seemingly-random door, and there is a workshop with several elves with chisels and paintbrushes, banging out replicas of an authentic Dalish mask hanging where they can all see it. There are several empty places at the tables, more tools than three people would need.

Ruth hands one woman a padded sack. “From the Dalish,” she says.

“When did you”—? Zev blurts.

“I paid them for it. It’s not even old, they made it themselves.”

“Thanks, this will help with repeat business,” the woman says, peeking in the sack. “Things have been slow since you’ve been gone. No one has quite your magic touch.”

“Speaking of which, is Rasha around?” Ruth says.

“Usual place.” The elf returns to her work.

Ruth nods and ducks back into the halls. He feels like he’s chasing a cat. She leads Zev through a few more turns before opening another random door, again without knocking. The light shifts suddenly in the room, and a half-dozen elven children sitting with an adult are startled with large, fearful eyes until they see it’s Ruth.

“Focus, children,” the woman says, and they turn back to her. Presumably this is Rasha.

The classroom looks like a Chantry classroom, except without windows. Zev thinks perhaps that’s to keep the students from getting distracted, but the light shifts again. A small flame floats above each small palm. They’re practicing magic. _If this is just the children, how many full mages are hidden here? What would the human Chantry do if they knew?_

Ruth winks and takes Zevran out yet another door, down a warren of hallways, and suddenly they’re standing in sunlight again.

“And here we have the Vhenadal.”

“What a loquacious tour guide,” Zevran says, feeling like he’s survived a dust devil but lost his hat.

“A Vhenadal is”—

Zevran laughs. “I know a tree when I see it, Ruth.” In the middle of the Denerim Alienage is a huge tree. It would easily take six or more people holding hands to wrap all the way around its trunk. The twisted branches above offer shade to the square below, and to the buildings encroaching on its space. Many Vhenadals Zevran had seen were decorated or otherwise venerated, but this one only had a simple sign.

Ruth grins and taps him on the nose with a finger. “The Vhenadal is the tree,” she says, ignoring Zevran’s kiss on her fingertip, “that was planted in the center of each Alienage when it was founded.” She makes a broad gesture to encompass not only the tree, but also the central square, surveying the area. She does not drop her voice as she says: “Many say it symbolizes Arlathan.”

“You don’t?”

“Vhenadal means ‘tree of the people’ in the ancient tongue, but that is its name, not what it represents,” Ruth says. “It _represents_ the peace we had in Arlathan.”

Zevran’s laughter dies as he realizes she’s serious. “Peace?” he says. “You must be mistaken. Look around you.”

Warden Ruth Tabris raises an eyebrow and looks, prompting Zevran to _look_. There are a few children, including the one he’d given the sovereign to, playing his game of grab-it with muddy rocks instead of coin. There is a woman, curled up under scaffolding, coughing hard, probably dying. There are a few elves heading for the gates to work for the humans. Somewhere above them, the sound of plucked strings floats into the square: a love song.

“Peace,” she says, nodding. “Tell me, Zevran, what has peace _gotten_ us?” Her eyes are fierce, intent.

“Filth, illness, servitude, and what little joy we can steal,” he replies, not ready to stop playing along.

“What has it cost us?”

Zevran remembers the images of Arlathan spun by the Dalish. “Everything,” he says.

“The Dalish buried their dead hunters and planted a tree with each. That’s powerful.” She does not finish, _blood magic_ , but Zevran knows what she means. “‘As long as the Vhenadahl lives, we shall live.’ That’s what the Haren of the Highever Alienage told Nelaros whenever he got caught fighting or even practicing.”

“Nelaros.” Zevran eyes the tree to buy himself some time to collect the right tone of voice. “That was your fiancé?” There. Not too jealous, not too blasé.

She nods. “Who learns to fight in an Alienage, Zevran? The good elves?”

Zevran grins. “Good or not, the _dangerous_ elves learn to fight.” That earns him a smile.

“Nelaros was a fighter. Maker, Zevran, you should have seen him go. You’d have liked him. Maybe Vaughan knew how dangerous he was, how lethal we would have been together. Or perhaps he saw elves who resisted his ‘noble’ will and crushed us on instinct.”

“What happened, amor?” Zev says gently, slowly laying a hand on her arm.

“The wedding was here,” she says. “Beforehand, Vaughan _bothered_ Shianni, and you know Shianni, she knocked him flat. Came back during the wedding with armed thugs. No fucking blade on me, under the tree of Arlathan’s peace on my wedding day. All the women taken. You know why. Nelaros and Soris broke in. Nelaros held off the guards while Soris got me a sword. By the time I got to him… The guard captain cut him down in front of me.” Ruth takes a shaking breath, and Zevran squeezes her arm gently.

“ _That_ is the peace this tree gives us. The peace of exploitation, the peace of victimhood.”

Zevran turns to face her squarely. “That’s not from the tree, amor,” he says softly.

“I can cut down a stupid tree,” she says. “I can’t cut down an entire society.”

Zevran pulls her forward and touches their foreheads together. “You can cut out your own heart, as well,” he says.

She smiles and tilts her head up to kiss him lightly. “That doesn’t seem like a good plan.”

“No,” he agrees, “it does not. Even in the middle of war, we need a sanctuary.”

“Yes.” She takes a shaky breath. “The Alienage has been sanctuary for our people. There’s one thing that does not change.” She steps around him to address the Vhenadal, hand on hilt, saying, “I will not live as a victim, and I refuse to let my people be victimized without answer.” Her hand is shaking, but her voice is steady.

Zevran feels himself slip a little further into love with this woman throwing herself against the Blight and the world.

“I’m with you,” he vows. “Whatever comes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the beta, (will reveal my beta's name after the author reveal). Thanks for finding time during NaNoWriMo!


End file.
